It's Not Over
by thishasbeenanonymous
Summary: Four years have passed since Scorpia Rising, and Alex has a new job in a private security company after taking his life under control. But since when has that stopped the life MI6 gave Alex from haunting him?
1. Chapter 1

AN: Hello. Perhaps you've read me before, under the author name talionyzero. Anyway, I'm taking up writing again for practice.

Disclaimer: any recognizable brand names are not my property and are used with the strictest adherence to US and international patent laws.

-AR-

"**Nobody****and nothing will stop Russia on the road to strengthening democracy and ensuring human rights and freedoms." – Vladimir Putin**

Rain pounded on the pavement; Alex moved beneath the garden gazebo. When creating times for outdoor meetings, perhaps it was a smart idea to bring the weather into account?

Voices came closer, and through the thick rain dark figures could be seen moving through the gloomy gardens. Alex stepped further back into the shadows offered by the gazebo. Tripping backwards, he reached a hand back to steady himself.

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.

He was anticipating the showdown. He felt hollow. He was terrified.

It had been a long, long time. Time enough that he could no longer remember the man's voice, or graceful manner. But infinity and beyond couldn't erase the intensity of his stare, his chilly blue eyes.

-AR-

"Alex! Open up, Alex; Mum and Dad are worried about you. You can't just leave school like that; you could have been killed for all we knew. Alex, Alex!" Sabina pounded on her friend's door, harried but not overly desperate now that she knew he was here. No killer would take the time to perfect Alex's way of casually slinging his bag onto the crowded kitchen table without disturbing anything and then replicate it perfectly.

"Hold on a minute Sab," a muffled voice replied. She took a step back and crossed her arms, impatiently tapping her foot. True to word, a moment later the nearly silent _click _of an unlocked door sounded, and the door was pushed outward.

Sabina stepped into the white room and looked around. Alex had apparently left school after first period that day, and Mum had gotten a call from the office. She'd thought initially it was just a panic attack, but just one cursory look around the room was enough to confirm suspicions of another, darker purpose.

The room was a normal teenage boy's room (even if it clearly belonged to an English boy in an American house) – a few Chelsea posters, a half filled bookcase with a few trophies hazardly strewn across the shelves, dark blue bedcovers neatly tucked into a bed, and on a sturdy wooden desk an old photograph of three people. From what she knew of the scene, it was his Uncle Ian, housekeeper Jack, and a younger Alex at a lake house in western France.

The room didn't have much of a personality, but neither did a great many teenagers. To the lazy eye there would have been indication of the hardships Alex had undergone nearly a year prior. Even a detective that had examined the scene would have been hard-pressed to find any remotely suspicion items unless they had access to the small metal safe in the corner of his closet. A passport with his identification papers could have then pinpointed Alex as a British citizen, a few medals (which had been earned collectively by John Rider, his brother, and his son) would have seemed a bit odd for a sixteen year old teen to have, and a photo album full of long gone people would have been at the very least a sad sight.

And now there was an open suitcase on the bed, already half filled with clothes in various shades of forest camouflage. As Sabina watched, mouth gaping, Alex tossed a few books and cleared out his safe into the suitcase.

"Wha- where are you going?" She demanded, after mustering control of her voice. "I suppose now you're telling me you've had enough of our nice, easy, safe life in America and are going back to get killed?"

"Back to Britain? Not likely," Alex dismissed. His tone was intentionally light, but didn't do it's intended purpose of distracted Sab from what he'd said.

"But you're leaving us? Back to the spy game?"

"Sabina, this isn't working. You've known that for a while," he started. It was true; Alex's regression toward his spy self might have flown over the heads of the Pleasure parents, but Sabina had noticed.

"Of course it is!" She'd noticed, but that didn't stop Sabina from attempting to stop it. On the outside, Alex had acted just as he had for the past half year: well adjusted, social, head of the soccer team and even (though Sab wasn't as fond of this part) beginning to date again. Emotionally, Alex had begun to withdraw to his initial post Jack days. He'd skipped three parties in a row, had stopped having friends over for the weekend, told Kelly that he needed some time off from the relationship, and had thrown himself into his studies with renewed vigor. But that wasn't all. His karate attendance had gone up until it seemed he would be ready for his next dan three years too early. He'd gone shooting with Jackson and came back looking happier than in the past month combined.

"No, it isn't." Sabina began to protest and Alex signed, falling back onto the bed. "Don't lie. I wasn't meant for this type of life."

"So you're going to go work for the governments that abused you?" Her glare might have stronger effect if tears weren't beginning to pool under her eyes, because you can't stop a Rider that's made up his mind."

"No, Sab, listen to me, I promise I'm not going to get hurt. I've been emailing a man I met with the CIA ages ago, and he left government work last year to create a private company invested in the business. I can't tell you the name or many details, really I'm not supposed to tell you any, but think of it like a guarding company. He's making a ton of money, and we've been talking to government people to get it cleared so I can work there even though I'm only sixteen because I've done a ton of stuff worse than this in my life, and the paperwork and permission finally came through," Alex ran through the words, occasionally tripping in his rush to be heard before Sabina zoned him out. This was the part he'd been dreading the most, but he couldn't just let the opportunity pass him by and sit back in school watching the world pass him by. He was a Rider.

"Anyway," he coughed, clearly his through, "It's like a security company. Mostly it's a lot of staking out possible criminals, guarding things, and taking on contracts for things the government doesn't want to or can't quite do."

"So killing people? Putting people in prisons outside of US waters and torturing them?" Her voice was numb, and Alex couldn't help but flash back to a time when she sat crying in a cell asking for Alex to save them from Cray.

"Dangerous criminals, Sabina. Terrorists that want to hurt you, and your mum, and your dad, and everyone we go to school with, and…"

"I get it." Sabina looked down at the floor, refusing to meet Alex's eyes. _He'd been through this, how could he just agree to do this as a career? _She wasn't going to cry. "Am I ever going to see you again?"

"I'm not running away, Sabina. I just need to be packed and at the airport by eleven. I'd still leave my room as it was, and visit Christmas and time off…if you and your parents wanted."

"Of course we want you around Alex, we just – you can't keep – this isn't fair!" Sabina turned around and walked towards her room, softly slamming the door on her way in. _Don't cry don't cry don't cry._

She lay on her bed, silently not crying, and listened as her parents found Alex and they talked. An hour later Alex popped in to say goodbye; she kept her head shoved into her pillow. She refused to look up, and eventually Alex left. Her mum came in shortly and sat with Sabina, stroking her hair and silently reassuring her that he would be fine as Mr. Pleasure drove Alex to the airport.

-AR-

Alex had been true to his word. He hadn't gotten hurt. He started off with upper level benefits (health care, top pay, free training in a variety of necessary skills, homework help) and a room in their Washington D.C. headquarters.

Most of the jobs were low danger: guard an armored truck or important person, go to a country where the US military tried to avoid and receive information, track relatively stable criminals. A few risky jobs had come and gone with little significant damage. Stopping a plot to kill the president, tracked down an Iranian bomber in the war recovering country of Sri Lanka, rescuing a diplomats wife from a Mexican cartel; these came in about once a month (since the company, although young, had quickly developed a reputation and notable contacts) and were usually completed in a few days.

None of the men on the staff knew Alex's age, or his previous experience. He had been introduced as a military genius of young stature, and was generally regarded as about 21. Since most men in the company were hired men that worked half the year (generally deployed in the company's more long term contracts – working in Iraq as a mercenary was one notable job the US government usually passed off to independent contractors instead of their men), Alex really only knew a few well. Two other men – Carter, the one who had recruited him, and Hydde, the other co-founder of the company- knew lived with Alex at HQ and knew his age and previous experience.

He'd joined a local soccer team, and made most of the games.

Christmas, Thanksgiving, and other big US holidays he visited the Pleasures. Sabina had graduated with flying colors, and was now off to the University of Chicago.

On his 17th birthday Alex tested for a high school diploma and passed easily. He then flew to Pakistan and held his ground in a Mexican standoff.

And a month away from his 18th birthday, when Alex had been officially taking a month off to consider a couple of positions offered by internal affairs and look into other options, a case came in that blew his mind.

-AR-

Alex glanced at the telecommunication device in his hand. No warning red lights were showing, which meant everyone was in their place and ready to take down the criminals.

Russia was supposed to be freezing at the best of times in winter, but September was barely fall. If not for the gazebo roof over his head, the rain would be chilling to the bone. The sopping wet clothes weren't helping either.

He raised the binoculars to his eyes. The man who had known about the deal from the inside, the defector now comfily provided for by the American government as they waited for the trail, had provided coordinates about fifty feet from where Alex was standing. They had already bugged the bushes near the coordinates, and Sylvester would be listening in the van, waiting to give them the go. Hopefully the rain wouldn't interfere with their devices; water never had before but it was raining fairly intensely.

Maybe the people who planned this meeting had checked the weather first. It was technically a public park, so rain would keep the public away – though in reality the side of town this was on discouraged people from hanging out in public for too long when it could be avoided. And if nothing else, spies would at least be easier to spot as they would be the only ones around.

On the other hand, maybe not. Alex squinted through the binoculars, trying to make out the figures through the dark. Even the lamps did little to alleviate the blackness. The outlines of shrubs and statues were in the way, and only two out of possibly four heads could be seen over a rather inconveniently placed large shrub.

A blue light began to flash on and off erratically on Alex's modified cell phone. He shoved it into his pocket and set off running, a gun materializing in his hand.

Even through the darkness, about ten black shapes could be seen running toward the illicit deal.

-AR-

Alex wasn't sure why he was so surprised at the news. Gregorovich was alive. MI6 had lied.

They had lied about a lot of things.

Yassen _had_ died. That was eventually made clear after all the searches they put through returned. Died for a moment, then shocked back to life by the emergency crew immediately after Air Force One had crashed. He'd entered a coma for a year, and then was broken out by what appeared to be the last remnants of Scorpia a week after he'd woken up. Half a year after Jack had died Yassen was out and free, recovering his life half a year after Alex had abandoned his own.

Alex might have felt conflicted upon the news of Yassen's death after the news was broken, but no more. People had died because of Yassen. Had died because of Alex's involvement with Scorpia after Yassen's message. Ian was dead and Jack was dead and Yassen was alive.

It was ironic, in a sick twisted way. All those years ago, on top of a helipad in central London, Alex had made a promise.

_Someday I'll kill you._

And now Alex was getting the chance again, and for not the first time he was hesitating. Yassen had come back to life in a plot devised by the devil just for Alex to have a chance at revenge, and Alex wasn't even sure that was what he wanted.

Yassen needed to be off the streets. Preferably dead. But did it really matter who killed him? It wouldn't bring Ian back.

That was what Alex thought when he went to bed after reading through all of the files. He sat on his bed, flipping through a photo journal of people in his life compiled by Sabina. His parents at their wedding day, Alex being born, Ash standing in a wedding photo, Ian and baby Alex, Jack; it had been too painful initially, but at sixteen he'd sworn to Sabina that he wasn't going to push away his earlier memories just because they were painful.

And then he'd called Sabina. Years of deceit yielded wonders when it came to Alex's verbal lying ability, and he'd chatted lightly about his last soccer game, an episode of Doctor Who Sabina and her new boyfriend had loved, and their idea for a new blockbuster movie. College was great, Sabina told him, and meanwhile Alex was shivering and thinking about Sabina staring defiantly at Cray as Yassen said nothing.

He'd gone to sleep, the issue weighing heavier than he'd care to admit.

Alex had woken up and sworn to torture Gregorovich in every conceivable painful manner until he was begging for death.

Now…now Alex wasn't even sure. But he had a job, paid for the US government, and he hadn't spent the better part of two years on the job to slip up now that it personal.

-AR-

Yassen Gregorovich was a brilliant man when it came to surviving; no one would deny that. He'd been taught by the best. After being rescued, it had taken him two days to catch up to speed. After seeing a doctor, securing his accounts and gathering new identification papers, he disappeared off the map. What was left of Scorpia had razed in Israel two weeks later in a joint effort between four nations' intelligence agencies and the US Navy Seals.

A month later he emerged as a private contractor once again, fully healed and up to date on the latest criminal activity. In approximately two and half years he had reacquainted himself with the teeming Russian underworld and established himself enough that to take him on was inconceivable.

Two months ago Gregorovich had taken a relatively easy job as the assistant to a cartel boss. A cartel boss that was now planning on buying the formula to a new drug from a formerly renowned US pharmacist named Gabe Reissue.

And now Alex Rider and company were under contract to destroy the new drug formula and take Reissue to the CIA. Gregorovich and his boss(assuming he showed in person) were a bonus.

Operations in Russia were tricky. National sovereignty was their thing, and heaven help any group that transgressed upon that most valuable of a principle. Hell helping you would be a step up from the nightmare awaiting guilty parties. Russia was the last of the 20 biggest world economies to join the World Trade Organization because they dislike working with others, and their entire international policy could be best summed up as "sure we're bad, but the rest of the West is worse."

In other words, complete the assignment, get out, and pretend it never happened. No wonder the CIA wanted nothing to do with it.

-AR-

Alex ran in pace with most of the others. He would have arrived in time if a stray shrub hadn't tripped him. He pulled himself up in a matter of seconds, but his phone had dropped and he was already behind the others. It would be ok, he reassured himself as he searched for his phone on the ground, completely blind and plastered wet. The circle wouldn't miss him.

"Freeze! Hands up in the air and drop all of your weapons. We are armed and we will shoot!" Bill yelled. English was the language of business, and it was assumed that all of these men were perfectly able to talk "business".

Scarcely a second had passed before the sound of bullets being fired filled the air.

Alex ran up to fill in his place in the circle, a few seconds late. A bullet streamed past, so close he could feel its trail. He returned fire without pause.

Dead silence filled the air. Two bodies lay on the ground, neither of them from Alex's side.

The fight was over practically before it began – the two remaining men were handcuffed, their stuff taken, and the entire procession entered a nearby building in haste. Everything was happening in fast forward in Alex's head. The prisoners were promptly locked into a room with no door on the inside. Two men on Alex's team had been injured; neither seriously. Jackson had a bullet in his left shoulder, and he sat down with the best medic of the group to have it looked at. DC had a twisted ankle which he was taking care of.

Harris called Sylvester in the van to arrange transportation and body disposal while the rest of the men sat down to play a game of cards. Harris had the drug formula in an open briefcase in front of him.

Alex sat down. _Breathe in, breathe out; breathe in, breathe out._ Everything seemed to be passing in a blur. He knew what two prisoners they had – Yassen and the American. Apparently one – or both – had brought a guard or two.

He had to see him. Had to know he was really alive. Maybe had to kill him.

It had been a long time since Alex had felt so out of control.

Everyone was used to Alex's presence; everyone was immersed in their own activity. And so although one or two of the other members of their team might have noticed Alex walk towards the door that held the prisoners inside, no one noticed enough to call him on it.

Alex keyed in the code, and the room. His heart was beating faster than it had since Jack had died and he couldn't think.

And so Alex walked into a room with unsecured prisoners, holding a gun loosely in his hand, and shut the door that trapped him inside without thinking. And a second later the gun was twisted from his hand, pressed against his head, and his eyes finally got the evidence they had been seeking.

Yassen Gregorovich was very much alive.

~TBC~


	2. Chapter 2

Not that it matters, but the American drug maker (Reissue) is pronounced Rye-Sue, not re-issue.

-AR -

""**One kills a man, one is an****assassin****; one kills millions, one is a conqueror; one kills everybody, one is a god****"" – Jean Rostand**

The gun was pressed none to gently into Alex's head. In the complete darkness that engulfed the two prisoners and Alex, he wasn't sure he wanted to chance speaking – a bullet aimed for his knee as a threat might be spurred into motion before Yassen heard who his captive was. If Yassen didn't already know. If Yassen even wanted Alex alive, let alone in the near vicinity.

Seconds of agonizing inner turmoil and adrenaline passed in silence, before a slighly rough voice spoke in an all too familiar voice.

"You will known on the cell door in front of you until one of your associates opens it. You will not try to break free, and you will not talk. Begin knocking if you understand."

Alex cautiously knocked on the metal door, cursing himself for his stupidity while wondering whether Yassen had realized.

"Louder."

Banging loudly on the door, Alex tried to run through all of the disarmoring moves he had practiced in his lifetime, not that he supposed any would work.

Muffled voices outside of the door became clearer as they moved closer, and a nudge of the gun was all Alex needed to hit almost as hard as he could. He was about to resort to using Morse code when the door swung open, the light blinding.

"We have guns aimed at you – oh."

Blinking against the sudden onset of light, Alex felt Yassen's hand firmly grab him by the neck with his left hand. The gun was almost painfully pressed into his skull.

"What are your demands?" Harris asked calmly. This wasn't a new position, although hostage situtations were rare. Two other men with guns and serious faces stared blankly at Alex. Attempting to glance backwards Alex saw the American prisoner in handcuffs. Another pair lay on the ground where Yassen must have broken free.

"I will be leaving, as will Mr. Reissue and the drug formula. All of the members of your group will move into this room, and I will take two prisoners with me. He," Yassen shook Alex (surely he knew by now? He had to know by now)," will stay with me for several days to ensure neither Mr. Reissue or myself is tracked. The other will be released after we have driven for several hours and he can come and release you all. This is not negiable; I suggest you begin to gather your men."

"We have no assurances you will carry through on this bargain, and we do have several agents undergoing medical procedures currently. I think we need to look at this closely."

The seemingly casual glance Harris threw at Alex could have meant anything, but at this moment it seemed to scream how could Alex just abandon all of his training to go mess with the highly dangerous prisoners. He glanced down, feeling fourteen and alone again. The kind of person that would abandon his training to emotion – chasing down terrorist groups and joining them with a little manipulation – had no place on a team with men that depended upon you having their back.

"You could kill me now, if you are not satisfied with the deal," Yassen said cooly. "Unfortunately, you would certainly lose your young friend instantly, and possibly one or two more in the process. I suggest you put your guns down slowly and find me the drug formula and the key to Mr. Reissue's handcuffs."

"Consider this carefuly for a moment. You have killed several people, but there is no need to add to that amount. This is our youngest member, still a kid, and you would be responsible for his death. There is still time for you to reform, and possibly even sent back to Russia in a prisoner transfer. If you confessed and told about your business dealings, we could certainly cut a deal."

Surely the mention that he was young, still a kid, had to clinch it? Alex wasn't sure which he was more terrified of – Yassen knowing now and planning ahead or finding out after his team was locked up. He had no doubts that it would come to that – Harris cared too much to straight out allow Yassen to kill him.

"I know psychology. I have been known to employ it. I have no desire to wait around while pretending to fall prey to your arguments, so I suggest you get moving. This is not a warning; I will shoot your youngest member here in the knee if this takes more than five minutes. I am sparing your lives, do not try to bargain down.

"Mr. Gregorovich, it is not within my authority to allow you to leave these premises but I am sure we could work out an advantageous arrangement for both parties."

Faster than even Alex was expecting, Yassen tipped the gun's barrel upwards and fired, narrowly skimming the top of Alex's hair.

"That was a warning shot – you will not kill me because you want your friend to survive, so follow my orders and see that he does. From now on it will be him suffering any injury caused by your lack of participation."

Yassen, pushing Alex along with him, and Mr. Reissue holding his handcuffed hands stiffly in front of him, moved outside of the cell door while Harris reluctanly and slowly began to usher people into the cell. As they walked, DC limping with his twisted ankle, into the cell most of them carefully avoided looking in Alex's direction. His cheeks flared; it wasn't fair.

Harris unlocked the American's hands, and then showed the American the entire area to prove that no one was hiding away. Yassen had all of the weapons dumped outside of the cell door, and then Harris was roughly shoved inside. Reissue held up the drug formula and nodded to show it was the real thing, with his other hand slightly lifting a briefcase presumably filled with money.

"Any volunteers?" Reissue asked nervously of the men, glancing at Yassen to see if this met with approval. Harris started to walk forward at the same time as Brandon, and Yassen indicated with the gun for Brandon to come forward.

The light was turned on, per Harris's haggling, so that Jackson could finish having the bullet in his shoulder removed, and a couple bottles of water were tossed inside. The door was shut, and Yassen led the way outside, leading Alex with the hand on his shoulder that hadn't been removed since the cell. It was almost suffocating him as they walked through the rain.

Yassen hadn't looked at him once, and he _had to know. _Was he just taking Alex so he could shoot him when they were out of ear range? Was he going to be tortured for information? Butterflies were multiplying in his stomach at an alarming rate, and hearing Brandon's shoes behind him didn't help.

He had failed, he had let down the team. Failure, immaturity. Sure, Yassen didn't know about Sylvester in the team's van, so the team wasn't in any danger, but what about Brandon? The man had a sister he was putting through college and a mom battling alcoholism. What would his sister do if Brandon was killed? No one deserved that except Alex for his stupidity.

Or Yassen for his unspeakable crimes against humanity, but somehow Alex couldn't bring himself to blame the cold blooded killer he let out for being a stone cold killer in response.

In the dark and freezing cold, rainy weather a car was located and turned on. The back door was opened and the light flickered on and off, deciding within seconds that off was the best option. Alex was shoved in the seat, his left wrist was handcuffed and his arm twisted back to behind the head of the seat. Reissue, on the Russian's orders, reached past the teenager's head to lift up the seat head, revealing the metal extensions. The handcuff was weaved around one of the steel columns and the remaining cuff snapped around his right wrist. In the front passenger seat Brandon underwent the same process. Finally the doors were slammed shut on the two prisoners, finally granting some respite from the harsh rain.

Alex realized his teeth were chattering quietly and clamped his jaw shut as the captors got into their seats. The engine revved to life with a loud rattle before settling down, and the heat was turned on high as the car roared into the streets. The darkness might have prevented sight (but not silent misery or havokked meltdowns) but the car was clearly a cheap model.

The journey was quiet: the weak beeping of the turn signal was the only break in stillness. After the first half hour the radio was turned on to Russian classical and remained for another hour before the car pulled over at a cheap gas station in the middle of nowhere. A slight trickle was all that was left of the previous rain. Yassen turned off the car and the engine collapsed with an exhale of relief. Leaving the three of them huddled in the car, he walked off into the convenience store. The American, if his breathing was to be believed, was panicking more than Alex and Brandon combined. He took short breaths and gasps, and the silent prayers could almost be heard dying on his lips.

He'd been a pharmacist, the teen remembered from his skimming of the file. Invented a drug then made a deal with a Russian mob leader, and now he was at the same mercy as Brandon and Alex. Lack of mercy, more likely. He could replicate the drug, it would almost be expected for the Russian assassin to kill him and despose of the body quickly.

Yassen climbed back into the drivers seat. There was no attempt to turn on the car, and the faint glow radiating from his seat indicated a cell phone and texting – was that what mob bosses did now? Text? Alex was tied up with screaming shoulders due the position and Yassen was (probably) texting his boss instead of just hurrying them to their doom.

And now you're inwardly snapping at the man that controls whether you live or die due to minor pain. You aren't a mental case, Alex, you're just trying really hard to be, he chasticed himself mentally.

Five minutes later the car was in motion again, but Alex couldn't help the ominous feeling that the texting was just cementing a bad fate.

Twenty minutes passed in torture until the car pulled over in a long, abandoned stretch of the road. Thick forest loomed over the car. Yassen walked to the passengers seat and let Brandon out, before calling Reissue out. Alex strained his body into the best position to see what was happening. He could guess – Reissue had left the money and the recipe on the seat next to Alex, and what real reason did Yassen have to let agents that almost killed him live?

They were behind the car now, and in the Alex's shoulders forced him to give up. He glanced in the rear view mirror and saw the glint of a gun. Brandon couldn't die – it wasn't fair!

"Stop!" Alex screamed, at the same time a loud bang punctuated the air. A body fell, and in the mirror he could see Brandon still standing.

"Please, stop!" Alex kicked the car door as loud as he could, hoping to make a scene – dear God he felt like himself three years ago – powerless to stop a good man die. All he could do was scream and cry, behaving like a four year old without a lollipop.

The people behind the car took no notice of him, and after a minute Alex stopped, defeated. Yassen wasn't going to stop killing because of Alex – he might kill Brandon just to torture Alex. Who know the mind of an undead assassin. And God help Alex if for some reason Yassen didn't know who his captive was. It had been almost four years, and it had been dark, and Yassen hadn't looked at him once, and he had to look like John more than ever now but Sabina had also said he was growing to look like his mom a lot more after she'd made the photo album.

Alex opened his eyes – he'd been almost unaware that he'd closed them. Yassen was alone now – where was the bang?

Twisting and turning frantically to try to glance more of the mirror, eventually Alex could almost make out a dark figure dissappearing into the night. Almost – what if he was imagining it? There are plenty of ways to die besides being shot, plenty of methods to kill that utilize only hands and some handcuffs.

Yassen's silhoutte was still outside, arms crossed and leaning against the back of the car. Alex's heart began to beat a thousand thumps a minute , his hands clenched tightly together. He wasn't thinking about Brandon or his guilt anymore, he was just terrified. More terrified than he would have been if Yassen had simply shot Brandon. Two years of experience and it hadn't beaten pure terror when it came to dealing with cold blooded killers who had him tied up. Unpredictable assassins were even worse.

Terror reached a maximum and stayed there as minutes ticked by. Eventually Yassen turned and approached Alex's side of the car. Alex shrunk into the seat, nevermind his burning shoulders.

The door opened and Yassen removed the handcuffs silently. "You'll be delighted to note that none of your friends are dead or in significant danger," he said calmly as pocketed the cuffs.

"But you killed the American guy?" Alex asked, incredelous.

"Yes. Get in the front."

Alex climbed out into the cool night air and glanced around. Brandon had dissappeared completely, and Reissue's foot stuck out from behind the tire. "You aren't going to dispose of the body?"

"I suspect nature and his lack of a Russian identity will keep the police from identifying the suspect. Get in."

"No."

Yassen looked at Alex cooly for a second, while Alex considered the merits of thinking before speaking.

"Yes. Now, I would suggest, before I return to handcuffs and gags."

"That would look suspicious to anyone that passed us."

"You might not be able to tell in the darkness, but we are in a police car. Not to mention the police ID I acquired thirty miles ago and I would believe no one would help you. If you want to stall for another minute, however, we can easily test this theory."

"Where are we going?"

Yassen strolled to the passenger side and with one smooth motion shoved Alex in and handcuffed his left arm to the steel head rest extension.

He buckled his seat belt without further protest and Yassen climbed in the other side.

"Where are we going?"

"Where I am going is not relevant to your current situation. Where you are going has yet to be decided."

"Breakfast would be nice," Alex said as his false bravado rose to the challenge of covering the shivers.

~TBC~


	3. Chapter 3

-AR-

"Every man is surrounded by a neighborhood of voluntary spies." -Jane Austen

Every year spies are found browsing in the agencies and communities of foreign countries; most of the time they make it back alive. This survival rate has been bolstered by the fact that neutral countries are often too weak to reasonably expect to survive larger powers when they execute their spies, and larger nations will expect favors in return. Israel is one of the few nations that does occasionally execute spies, though they usually give an excuse along the lines of "it was the heat of the moment when it happened; sorry guys."

Last year Russia and the US exchanged spies as a show of good faith, an act that rarely succeeded during the days of the Communist bloc. The Russian spy, Anna Chapman, became an instant celebrity. Putin welcomed her with open arms; clearly Russia had nothing to regret when caught in the espionage act.

In the modern world, the Cold War was more of the norm than open fighting. Most of the time secret agents returned to their home nation, almost all of them bearing no physical signs of strain. Missing fingers were uncommon.

But these were spies caught by government agents in a world where news was instant and governments held responsible. These were government agents officially paid by governments, not a spy working for a private company that officially had no authority to work the case. Assassins hired by mobsters were unlikely to be as kind.

-AR-

Beethoven descended upon the quiet of the car and broke through it, disturbing troubled thoughts as the car glided into the outskirts of a small city. Alex was asleep in the passenger seat but the absence of one troubled conscience had not settled the turmoil.

To an observer the driver stared blankly ahead, occasionally moving his head inches in order to weave in and out of the trucks dotting the highway. To an observer with access to top secret files the man in the front seat was an untroubled assassin making his way to the man holding the paycheck. Possibly a disposal site would be stopped at along the road; if the assassin was feeling particularly human perhaps the stop would be relocated towards a hospital specializing in amnesiacs (which a few choice chemical mixtures could easily produce out of the strongest minded individuals).

Internally, many thoughts were swirling and Alex was the least of them. It is an observable fact that children look more like their fathers when they are young so as not to be rejected, and they then grow into their mother's features. Alex had not lost his resemblance to his father, but the years had worn away distinct traces of his father as his face became more cemented into the adult mold of a military man. Or it could just have been the selfishness inherent to an undead assassin that pushed the kid out of his mind. (As any purveyor of military films – or Star Wars – can say, a kid is no longer a child but certainly a young – and often heroic, following the script of Star Wars – adult with nothing to his name except his name and a sense of righteousness that time will wear down).

Three years ago Yassen had meant to retire, but calling in favors and making deals to cement new identities had meant he was no longer afforded the luxury when he woke up from one series of haunted dreams. Now Alex was back again, yet again coinciding with a chance at retirement, but Yassen was not entirely sure he desired it this time.

The Cold War had been a long, harsh period throughout the world. For an orphaned child in the Soviet Union, it had been harsher. Prostitution, drugs, and crime ran rampant through the street (often while screaming names at the freezing beggar children littering it) and the authorities paid more attention to stopping capitalistic soda companies from setting up shop and sending men to the moon.

There were men in Vietnam facing down guns every day that would take their fate over what Yassen and other beggars were forced to do to survive while competing with each other for those awful fates.

And now it was possible that in a few years Yassen would be in a position to peacefully acquire the job of mob boss from his current employer and make a steady living off what many would say was continuing the abuse of thousands of children annually.

Yassen disagreed. Even in modern Russia where crime was becoming almost illegal, mob bosses still had more authority than most politicians. It would not be the first time that men in a position of exploitation would instead help the community and its children. Drug runners and druggies would die and continue in circles of abuse regardless of any outside event, but Yassen could live a protected life for a few years as mobster while setting away a small fortune then peacefully retire after playing the same role as a philanthropic bastard as Carnegie had in America a century ago.

As for Alex…perhaps it was time he learned to face the consequences of his actions.

-AR-

The forest was frigid and existed in shades of gray; many men having jogged for 15 miles while hungry, tired, and worried would have collapsed against a scrub by now. But the road remained completely empty of both headlights and wild life, and Brandon was no ordinary man. He had been with the Navy Seals for two years before a shot in the thigh had left him in physical therapy and out of a job. The military pay had been fine, but after working in a desk job for three years and getting married, he had joined the team.

And now with a team and responsibilities he needs to rescue the team by beating the freezing Russian fall and find Alex.

Whatever Alex had done, he was stupid, but that guy had saved his back time and time again. Alex was only twenty and he'd almost taken a bullet for Brandon once, beating back a desperate drug dealer in the last second by pure skill.

Brandon stopped for a second to lean against a tree while panting harshly. Everything was the same shade of dark gray, but his breath was clearly outlined. After a minute he shoved himself weakly in the same direction, following the road towards the gas station where a man was waiting with a cell phone…if an assassin could be trusted. Possibly he was just making sure the body of a foreign citizen did not end up spurring an international conflict that could be traced back to him.

There hadn't been any buildings near the gas station for miles, however, and another fifteen would probably be his limit. He pushed on against the black spots suddenly threatening his vision, ignoring the nausea in his stomach.

That was it then. Go back to base and meet up with the team. Find Alex. Rescue him. Kill him. Then take out the rest of the stupid fucking bastards that had messed with their team, and get out of this bloody country.

Goddam he needed some sleep.

-AR-

Normally citizens of any developed country are offered due protection against cruel and unusual treatment from other citizens and the government. Apparently those that volunteered for abuse by signing their soul to the government were beyond such consideration.

Russian Special Forces had some of the most intense training programs in the world. Every capable Israeli citizen spent time in the army, and of those a few are selected through rigorous training to live defending the country from its enemies on all side. The Navy Seals lose trainees almost every year from accidents during their training program. Hopeful men freezing to death when a fire is across their campsite because they are too strong to give in to the frostbite they are feeling.

None of these can compare to the pure fear instilled by knowing that you will be killed, possibly over a number of days, when training for a job directly under the head of the mob. The training was messier, less coordinated, but it worked because no matter how ideological a man may be, his training will fall short of taking out a desperate assassin who is used to fighting with broken glass in each hand.

The mobster commonly referred to as "Dead Dog" (a name so laudable in itself that that the mobster had delighted in watching drug dealers sniggering into their hands when introduced before meeting a sudden end more than a few times) watched his young twins crawl around on the floor. He had lost two highly trained men, good at their jobs, but now he had the formula for a new drug and a prisoner.

A text lit up the iPhone 5 lying on the mobster's desk, another from Gregorovich. He was almost tempted to reply 'shoot the kid," but refrained. A kid that an American agency wanted back quite quickly; surely they would pay…?

Quickly the reply was typed and sent while a child banged the wall in the background.

-AR-

I'm not going to beg for reviews; it really doesn't matter to me, but if anyone has a few thoughts on any particular scenes or relevant political knowledge/military history/random thought about pink elephants they want to share, go for it. My updates will most likely be sporadic in length and randomly dropped through time, and in the future if I wait a long time before updating I will try to leave a blurb at the top catching everyone back up with the story so far. Thank you, and TBC.


	4. Chapter 4

The story so far: Alex has been working for an independent contracting company after the events of Scorpia Rising, keeping in contact with the Pleasures and going about his life as an independent almost-adult. His last mission involved the reappearance of assassin Yassen Gregorovich, who had previously been assumed dead, and a drug dealer. After a botched attempt by Alex to communicate with the captive assassin, Yassen took Alex and a member of his team hostage, later releasing the hostage and shooting the American drug dealer. Alex is now tied up in a car heading towards a Russian mobster called Dead Dog.

"**All men kill the thing they hate, too, unless, of course, it kills them first." ~James Thurber**

"I'm going to kill you."

Yassen glanced in the rearview mirror, switching lanes smoothly as he neared his destination. "Is that the wisest thing you could say to the man holding you hostage?"

Alex smiled. Overnight he had transformed from a scared kid back into the competent spy he had been for many years. Through the passenger window billboard signs, written in English, advertised cheap, fun, sexy Russian ladies. "I didn't know how I was going to react when I first saw you pop up on the radar," he said conversationally, his voice just a little too high. A child waving eagerly through the window of a battered blue car smiled at everything in her sight, and a shudder snaked quickly through Alex's body. He continued on his proven path of dealing with hostage situations undeterred, however, reaching for a show that he was making a crack in the assassin's shell. Air Force One served as a constant reminded that even Gregorovich had emotions – the creeping horror of realizing that Ian's murderer was trained by Alex's father clung too tightly to raw emotion to mask, and Alex fully intended to use his own emotions rattle his captor. "But now I know. I'm going to disarm you, point a gun at you long enough for you to know it was me that murdered you, and then I'm going to shoot you. Preferably in the gut; the most painful death for a murderer."

"I wasn't aware that in the time since we last met, you turned into a psychopath. I promise you I'll keep the fact in mind."

Again the teenager smirked. "You do that."

The car ground to a halt; Yassen put the gear in park. "Oh, a waffle joint. Menacing. Was the bouncy castle taken by a bald man in a wheelchair, stroking a cat?"

"You wanted breakfast." Yassen pulled the key out of the car, and unfastened the handcuffs. "I trust threats aren't in order?"

"I've heard them all already, yeah. They usually go something along the lines of you'll kill everyone in the place if I scream for help, then trap me in an iron maiden for a couple of weeks while I slowly bleed to death?"

"You'd die of thirst before bleeding to death, but yes, the general idea remains."

Alex stepped into the heat of the sun, stretching. His arms had been screaming for relief from the cramped position they were forced into for hours, but the cuffs hadn't even been tight enough to leave red marks.

Except for the menu being printed in Russian, the atmosphere and running of the waffle house reminded Alex of the IHOP across the road from headquarters back in America. After being waved to an area of the restaurant and settling into a four person booth, Yassen made no further attempt to communicate with Alex, pulling a book out of a small black backpack he had brought in.

"So how does Steve Jobs biography relate to killing people, exactly?" Alex asked, raising an eyebrow. There was no response forthcoming. Sighing loudly, stuck between pursuing a plan of annoying Yassen into mistakes through acting like a petulant child and creating progressing threats of violent deaths, neither of which seemed a viable option, Alex half-heartedly examined the mostly empty room. His hope for rescue, as he was well aware, rested almost entirely on his team tracing him down somehow. Verbal threats or petty annoyances weren't going anywhere, but he saw no other use of him time. At the very least, his childish actions would convince Yassen that Alex wasn't enough of a threat to be treated with the full prisoner 'privileges' that an older militaristic type might receive, leading to more of chance of escape. But more than zero still wasn't much.

A waitress came and went, taking their order from Yassen in a rapid exchange of unintelligible syllables. "Asking what I wanted wouldn't have really taken much of an effort, you know," Alex commented after he was sure the waitress was out of earshot, not ready to deal with finding the one waitress who spoke English.

The meal came and the two ate silently, Alex staring blankly into space. Yassen paid and they returned to the vehicle, Alex walking in front. Nearing the car, he slowed his pace. They had parked far enough from the restaurant that a scream for help would be obscured by the clamor of traffic from the adjacent highway. A gaggle of bushes obscured the view. Behind the parking spots a thin scattering of trees stood, with another section of busy highway right beyond.

Alex stopped beside the passenger door, and turned to face the assassin. He reached for the door, and paused. "So remind me again, why I'm not fighting back?"

"Alex, get in the car," Yassen said quietly.

"Right," Alex said, and punched Yassen in the stomach. Then he turned and ran into the trees. The Russian took a step back before following. Youth backed up Alex, but experience and pure strength propelled Gregorovich in pursuit. Alex hadn't gotten twenty meters before he was knocked to the ground.

Rolling onto his back a second before a kick aimed at Alex's head landed, he threw his hands up in defense, softening the blow. A gun had appeared in Yassen's hand in the brief struggle, and it was hidden in the waist holster again. Alex scrambled backwards through dry leaves, pushing himself up onto his elbows before pushing himself straight up. He attempted to sprint again, and was met with Yassen grabbing the back of his shirt as he passed. Releasing him long enough to grab Alex by the hair, he dragged the struggling teenager back to the car.

Alex gritted his teeth against the pain, reaching out to grab onto Yassen's arm, pulling it off of him.

Yassen slammed the teenager against the pavement, and knelt down so that his hand was cradling Alex's throat. "That was exceptionally foolish."

"What, my last ditch effort to prevent finding myself dead within a day?" Alex wheezed, the hand constricting his throat just enough that he could feel the pressure.

"Yes, and warning me beforehand." Yassen increased the pressure tenfold, squeezing tightly. Alex struggled, clawing at the ground as he gasped like a fish out of water for air. Violent and indigo spots danced across his vision as the oxygen flow the brain ceased. A field of black threatened to claim his vision as his thoughts grew hazy, as if he'd been drugged. Seconds before fully passing out, Yassen stood up, releasing Alex. "If you aren't buckled into the passenger seat within a minute I will shoot you in the knee."

"Fuck you," Alex muttered. Without the strength or will to fight, Alex wrestled back the pull of gravity, dragging himself off the ground and staggering into the car. His head pounded, feeling like a ton of bricks had just collided into it. Leaning back into the seat, exhaustion claimed him.

But he had learned something. Whoever Yassen was taking him to, he didn't want Alex shot.

Hundreds of reports found themselves recycled daily through the desks of the men and women working behind the scenes of the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation. A few of those reports somehow left the piles to be sent to upper level heads. Responsible for domestic intelligence affairs, as well as counter intelligence, surveillance, and security, the organization dealt with terrorist attacks annually. So to make the top dogs pay attention, big names had to be involved. Names like international celebrities, such as Ron L. Hubbard, Damien Cray or the Pope, or big name politicians like Obama or Putin. Or spies and the terrorist organizations that kept them in business. Scorpia and Al Qaeda, The Gentleman. And suddenly, Alex Rider.

Darkly a heavyset balding man glared at the piece of paper. "So you're telling me this kid, Rider, saved our president?" he asked, his heavy voice occupying the room.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Pavlovskii," said a suit.

"And now he's missing behind our borders, according to some US based military company. Americans, think they own everything, as if we can just give them rights to tromp through the country, looking for their missing member. As if we have the time or energy to waste looking for this fucking kid, with a suicide bomber in St. Petersburg last weekend and the corruption charges in the election. And now suddenly the damn president is claiming we need to help find this kid because of a personal favor that supposedly every single member of this country owes the kid. He's not even 18, and not even really American. Combine a Brit and an American and what do you get, Maslov?"

"I don't know, sir."

"A self-entitled, waste of energy brat." Behind his desk, Pavlovskii shook his head with disgust. He reached for a cigarette before pulling back – dealing with the wife berating him for the guilty pleasures of life was the last thing he wanted at the end of today. "Tell the president that I'm sending my top agents to find the lucky bastard. And _someone, please_ get me access to the rest of this kid's fucking files!"

"And sir, what about the assassin they reported? And what are we doing with the Americans? They did enter our country under pretense."

"Lock 'em up until I have a chance to talk to them. Make sure there isn't any nasty business – we don't need to deal with an international incident as well. Transparency and all that. As for Gregorovich, get him alive. The Russian government has some questions for him."

AN: I did say the updates would be sporadic. Also, I apologize for my many grammatical mistakes, and less than perfect writing – looking through past chapters I see more than a few errors – but this story is really a writing practice I have for when I'm not much in the mood for a fully-fledged short story , so I rarely polish what I've written. I probably shouldn't release less than perfect work, but since I don't have the time to both write my own short stories, participate in the rest of my life, and go through the laborious practice of writing and rewriting chapters, it doesn't happen.


	5. Chapter 5

The story so far: An eighteen year old Alex is working for a contracting security company located in America after the events of Scorpia Rising and a year feeling bored with life at the Pleasures. After taking up a mission following an American scientist attempting to pass a new drug formula to Yassen Gregorovich, Alex found himself the prisoner of a less than content contract killer. Witty repartee has since ensued. Meanwhile, the Russian government has agents searching for Alex on order of the president, who Alex had saved during his last term (remembering that this is a fictional piece of writing, please ignore any and all similarities to any current Presidents of the Russian Federation).

"**The Doghunters are maniacs. They enjoy killing. Unfortunately, the police do not want to react." –The South African Times**

Of the multitudes of accusations the American agents could throw at the Russian government officials currently holding them as political trespassers, inhospitality was not one of them. Tensions between America and Russia were strained by third world rebellion – cruelty towards transgressors of a relatively minor crime was not on the agenda. Well, sneaking into Russia was hardly minor, but compared to current international affairs in the Middle East, it took a backseat.

"You have no idea where our agents are, do you?" Sylvester asked the man who had escorted their members to a series of rooms.

"Not at the moment, but our agents are working on locating Rider and your other man. Our president is putting many of our top men on the trail – aside from a personal debt of gratitude owed to Mr. Rider, the information related to drug creation is alarming." The suit glanced around the room – attached to a restroom and a long chamber holding eight bunks attached to the wall, a small living area completed by a mini kitchen and almost new television set held the uninjured agents picked up. He grimaced, not unkindly, and continued in his mild Slavic accent. "We'll be contacting the United States to discuss prisoner release. Due to the _philanthropic _drug ceasing nature of contract your company held in America, it's unlikely our nation will press charges against you. This does not forgive the Western attitude in licensing men to cross our borders and conduct investigations without permission or proof. Unfortunately, you may be here a while."

"How long is a while?" Harris inquired, reclining in a tired blue loveseat.

"Six months, a year," the suit shrugged. "Do not think our government is unkind – you could be in prison right now. We will allow communication and letters to your family to be sent, if you wish."

"And we are very grateful," Harris lied smoothly. "What about my men in the infirmary?"

"Possibly they will be sent home – or to the embassy early, as a sign of good will. Russia tries it's best to maintain favorable diplomacy with the West, however often they attempt to sever our extended hand. Do you have any other questions?"

The assembled men kept quiet. They had plenty of questions, but the likelihood they would be answered honestly but this diplomat of Russian anti-Western attitudes? Even on orders from the president to play nice to the friends of his young savior, semi-comfortable quarters as a prison were they best they could hope for. They might be free to write letters to their family and the Russian agents might not truly resent them, but that didn't mean their words would arrive uncensored or that they'd be treated as princesses.

"Good. Food fill be brought in shortly. If you have any questions, press this button," here the man gestured to white doorbell the size of a penny beside the main door. When the men continued staring blankly at him, the suit nodded good-day and left the apartment. There were no locks on the door, but they would not be able to leave.

"Well boys, fuck this situation." The men nodded and smiled grimly. Conversationally Harris continued, "If Alex doesn't survive Gregorovich I'm going to beat the kid into a fucking bag of pulp for making us turn ourselves over to the KGB here."

The car pulled to a stop once again. Alex stared dully out the window. A day had passed, but he'd spend maybe a cumulative hour sleeping. They were in Moscow – for the past hour signs translated into English had conspired to prove that. Grey apartment complexes, identical to the last few blocks, surrounded the parked car. Alex's headache from the earlier abuse was almost gone, and in return apprehension and fatigue consumed him.

Yassen was texting again, this time while pulling the American's stuff out of the backseat. "Get up."

Too tired to put up a fight, and far too mentally battered to come up with another clever quip Alex slumped out of the passenger seat and shut the door, leaving his palms facing up and hands in plain view. The universal language of surrender, Alex's long lost best friend.

"Follow me," Yassen commanded, and led the way up a dimly lit staircase to a third story apartment in the middle of the street. "Knock twice, and keep your hands in the air."

A minute passed before the door was answered by a well built, dark haired girl in her early thirties. In a plain black dress wearing an apron, she was likely the help. She waved them into a small waiting room and greeted Yassen in Russian before going down the hallway and ducking into a well lit room. Yassen took his coat off and hung it over the back of a chair, placing the American's supplies on the chair itself.

Once inside it was obvious the apartment didn't belong to any average middle class family – the walls entering the apartment were too thick to not hold some sort of reinforcement against attack or eavesdroppers. Two men in tight military clothing were seated in the small sitting room – one was holding a gun and watching the new arrivals, the other faced computer monitors set into the wall displaying various shots of outside the apartment.

"Take off your shoes," Yassen told Alex before addressing several foreign words to the guards. Computer man nodded and typed a quick command into smart phone. Without a word Alex slipped off his shoes and kicked them toward the wall, keeping his hands in the air.

"He will see you now," computer man spoke in clumsy, barely decipherable English. Yassen headed down the hallway and with a short pause, Alex followed.

Molotov's phone buzzed. Quickly he read the text and quickly replied that he would see Gregorovich now. Kissing his sleeping wife's brow, he arranged her laying out on the couch and entered the back door to his office. This was the only currently unlocked door leading between his home apartment and the one he did business in, but both were intensively guarded. Taking a seat behind his desk, the man brushed away the strands of Ella's hair clinging to his black muscle shirt.

The door opened and a blond boy, possibly nineteen or twenty, was shoved in, hands up and rings under the eyes. "Take a seat," Molotov advised, nodding at the four chairs in front of his desk. The boy did, and Yassen placed the briefcase on the desk before following his lead.

"You're younger than I expected." The mob leader critically examined the agent.

Alex slowly lowered his hands to the seat's hand rests. "I get that a lot. Except usually the bad guy says I'm handsomer than they expect. Apparently I'm just too beautiful to die. Or be hurt, or end up in any way facing negative repercussions for my heroic and princely actions."

"Heroic and princely actions that saved the president's life two years ago?" Mentally he did the math – the boy had saved Russia when he was 16?

"Three years ago, actually. Three and half years, if you want to be technical." Tightly an impish smile forced itself across Alex's face.

"And now I'm missing two perfectly good men. One of them supported three children. What a heroic child you must have been indeed, to grow into the life of a professional nuisance."

"There are probably plenty of – "

"Be quiet," Molotov ordered softly. Immediately Alex complied, looking stunned for a second. Swiveling his chair to face Yassen, Molotov inspected the briefcase.

"All of the formulas and test samples are in there," the assassin supplied. "Reissue was careless with his innovation."

"Fine. I'm putting this into safe, wait for me to return." Molotov closed the briefcase and left via the door behind the guest chairs. Alex turned to watch him go, and his eyes fell onto a children's rattle lying on the ground. He swallowed and turned back to face the desk. The walls of the room were blank except for two massive oil paintings of nineteenth century Russia. Files on the desk appeared to be mostly for show. Nothing personal about the room, but did Alex really think the man just happened to have kids who played in their dads workroom and left rattles? Maybe a kid brought in to be killed to make a point. Like Alex?

Briefly he stole a glimpse at Yassen. He was sitting his legs crossed and eyes closed – perfectly relaxed at first glance. It would probably take a second for him to react if Alex made any sudden movements.

Bracing his hands against the arms of the chair, he slowly changed pushed himself upright. If push came to shove, dying in a hail of gunfire was better than, well, really any of the tortures men in positions similar to Molotov tended to devise in order to satiate their sadistic urges.

"Don't be stupid, Alex." Yassen's eyes remained closed, and he hadn't moved, but Alex sat back down.

The mobster entered the room again. "You've cost me two employees, and the time it took to train them," he addressed Alex. "If you have the money to compensate me for their loss, I would mention it now, and quickly."

"I didn't kill them."

"Your company killed them. I have you here." Molotov smiled coldly. "And?"

"I don't have any money to give you."

Yassen looked over Alex. "Surprising that you would work in the richest nation in the world, in a company provided for by the American military, and you have no money."

"I _have_ money. I'm not giving it to be used financing the Russian mob, paying for the likes of you." There was a brief silence, and from the disdainful expression Yassen wore Alex clearly wasn't following his instructions to not be stupid. He couldn't tell if Yassen particularly cared or not, though. "I suppose this is the part where you start threatening me. Yassen will cut my fingers off with scissors, yeah?"

"There are other ways to reimburse losses," the assassin pondered. "I believe an old acquaintance of yours was in the organ harvesting business?"

Alex froze. Yassen was tracking him. No, that didn't make sense; the Russian hadn't even been out of his coma yet, had he? Maybe he'd just read up on the various meetings between members of SCORPIA and Alex after the fact?

He laughed, but it was shaky. "You could. I don't really have the gun in the relationship right now."

"No." Molotov smiled and tipped his head. He could just as easily ordered Alex shot then it seemed.

"Then there are organizations, individuals, remnants of once powerful groups who would pay for a chance to own Alex," Yassen suggested. He reclined backwards with ease, allowing a small smirk towards the stiff captive. "He is quite an interesting individual, and many plans were foiled by him before he even turned 15. Not to mention people who met the double agent his father was, or his uncle, a British spy. I'd imagine anyone who's met his family would gladly pay for the pleasure of exterminating the branch once and for all. And there are ways to ensure multiple bids, of making various groups happy."

Alex could have run then. Yassen knew who he was, all right, and he knew who Alex's father was. There was no way he couldn't have found out, after a week conscious in MI6's company before a rescue from a newly Julia Rothman-free SCORPIA. A younger Yassen thought John his hero. Alex's was so consumed by Brandon and the rest of his teammates, Alex forgot to consider Yassen's reaction to news that would devastate his memories.

"All excellent ideas, I'd think." The mobster nodded his head in deep thought. "Alex?" he asked Yassen, clarifying the name. A brief nod in return, and "Alex, wonderful. What do you think? I'm willing to compromise on your fate, but first I'm going to need my refund."

"I think you're going to have to try harder if you want my money. As far as motivations and terror inducing threats go, you're a three out of five. You aren't even showing any skin – let's be realistic, this isn't a kids movie, you're allowed to dress for the occasion. Where are the fancy tricks?"

"And Alex, you will have to try harder if you want to leave this situation alive." A ring punctuated the tension, and the mob leader glanced at his phone. "My wife should be getting to bed now, and I'm going to give her some company. Gregorovich, you know where the cells and tools are. I don't particularly care what you do with Alex tonight, but we can rejoin tomorrow morning to discuss the options. For an idea, Alex, I believe three hundred thousand American dollars would be roughly sufficient tonight. For every additional night that it takes to bring me my money, I will add fifty thousand." The mobster exited stage right, through a door behind the desk. Several soft knocks on the door brought to mind extra locks securing the separation of the two apartments.

And then they were alone.

Yassen stood up and pushed in his chair.

Alex inhaled a breath and closed his eyes, exhaling slowly in a futile attempt to calm down. _Gregorovich, you know where the cells and tools are. _Well that was it then. Yassen knew the truth about John Rider and was probably set back years in skill level after taking a bullet for Alex. Now as long as Alex was there to walk back in – well, not even that – as long as Alex was _alive _tomorrow the assassin had access to everything needed to torture him to near death.

"Get up, Alex." There was no way to interpret Yassen's tone. Childishly, he grabbed the armrests.

"I'm not my father," his voice was desperate, on the edge of pleading. He shook his head. Fuck this, he wasn't beaten yet. Boldly, "You said you do things for the money, not because it's personal."

"If that's your attempt at a lead in to bribery, stop now."

"Maybe it was an attempt at groveling?" Alex tried. "You know, practicing the helpless act before I kill you."

"You'll have plenty of time to practice in the following days. Get up. You do not want me to force your hand," Yassen commanded impatiently.

"And then what happens?"

"I lock you in a cell and you spend a sleepless night afraid of whatever we decide should happen to you."

Alex stood up, and immediately tripped ending up sprawled across the floor. Distastefully stepping back, Yassen allowed Alex a chance to drag his body up and follow him outside, where he was handed to a guard to be locked into a small, bare closet almost entirely filled by the presence of an air mattress and a few sheets set up in the corner. He collapsed onto the bed and shivered. Hostage situations with himself as the hostage – now there was a circumstance he hadn't seen in the past four years.

Fuck.

About to step into the shower, another text lit up Molotov's phone. "Ah," he exhaled. This was a fortuitous turn of events. Why did all of the best things come from American-Russian relations?

AN- Thank you everyone for your reviews/favorites. Unfortunately I haven't had a chance to respond, but encouragement is always nice. If you enjoyed this chapter, or maybe had a favorite line, or wanted to say hi, drop me a line and I promise to respond this time.


	6. Chapter 6

AN- do me a favor. While you read, keep track of your favorite part of the chapter, and your least favorite, and tell me at the end so I know what to work on. I have the next chapter almost finished, but it will help overall.

"Let us resolve the internal political problems of Russia ourselves."  
>― Vladimir Putin<p>

Alex grimaced. Lying on his side with a sweat drenched back and three sheets knotted around his legs, he had little doubt hours had passed since the mobster graciously offered respite vis-à-vis assurances of various unpleasant fates to think on. If he truly thought Yassen's boss would let him walk away, he'd offer whatever money was wanted himself. Three million dollars, even to a nefarious gangster, wasn't worth his life.

And then Yassen needed consideration. Selling his organs, forced prostitution, selling him to the highest bidder – in three minutes the worst fears of his life were presented as the options he got to choose between, not by the mob leader, but Yassen. Clearly there was no lost love between Gregorovich and Alex, now that John's secrets were out in the open.

But he hadn't tortured Alex, and he hadn't shot Brandon. The mob leader gave Yassen full permission to do whatever he wanted last night insofar that he arrived back at the discussion in one piece in the morning. Taunted him, sure, but tossing him onto a mattress and locking the door (or handing him off to a guard to do the same) was hardly hateful.

At least he knew there would be no last minute saves from madmen's bullets. Not that Alex thought the mob boss was crazy. Just greedy, happy in a position of power, and slightly sadistic.

I need sleep, Alex thought, in the dark recesses of his brain. More than that, he needed an escape. A way home, or to the American embassy – hell, the British embassy would take him. The new head of MI6, in his last discussion with Alex about his old life, made it abundantly clear that the British government was willing to move mountains, within reason, in regards to protecting Alex from the negative consequences of his spy life.

He'd had a gun, before charging into a dark room where Yassen could easily take it from him. Back at the temporary headquarters he'd worn a walkie-talkie – hell knows where that ended up. With a groan Alex felt along the wall on each side, crawling on his hands and knees to avoid knocking into the closet sides in the dark. There was nothing he could do except sleep. But no matter how many hostage situations he had worked from the other side, knowing that sleep was necessary to recoup his energy _did not _equate to managing sleep knowing that morning would break to the Russian mob deciding on his method of disposal.

Not the organ donors. Alex couldn't stop a sudden rush from pulsing through his body, leaving him shaking on the air mattress. After a night of shaking, it was half deflated. He could handle pain. No, he couldn't, but eventually it'd be over. Rape at the hands of dozens of the upset terrorists he'd stopped at one point or another – when did that become the least troublesome? At least his body was in one piece – he could see, and hear, and taste.

In the darkness he traced the jagged edge he'd created with the nicked child's rattle. Assuming he could find a distraction, the tool might create the last chance opportunity he needed. Or, if things got desperate, an easier way out (for himself).

Alex closed his eyes and timed his breathing.

-break

Few occasions warranted waking up the head of MI6, and even fewer deserved the personal attention of the CIA's director. And yet both were currently on the phone haggling with Eric Pavloskii, despite the current nonconventional hours of early morning and near midnight, respectively.

"Alex Rider was an experiment that won't be repeated, but you understand it would cause considerable embarrassment to our agencies if these files were made accessible," MI6's head stated.

"Then expect a dead body to be shipped back to American soils, if we can't get access to assessments of his earlier life. A select few men will be the only ones looking into the file, and they don't have permission to speak about the former agent's life, but you understand I can't spare unprepared manpower to trace down an illegal alien, especially when I can't even get a straight answer over his current home country!" Pavloskii thundered. At least part of his statement was false, with men already deployed to track Rider, but forcing the hands of foreign countries intelligence agencies was difficult enough without bringing such convoluted issues such as truth to the table. As an afterthought, he threw out "Wouldn't it easier to both of your agencies to turn a blind eye and allow the embarrassment of a former child spy disappear forever?"

"No one is suggesting that. But state secrets are contained for a reason, and on the more personable end Alex doesn't deserve to be rescued because the world suddenly knows his face, turning him into a freak and target." Glancing over the limited access to MI6's file on Alex Rider, the CIA director frowned, embarrassed by the record of the former CIA operator. Muffling the receiver on his phone, he called into the other room of his house, asking his wife for a cup of coffee.

"And no one here is disputing that Alex will likely return to America, but he is still a British citizen with access to British state secrets. At the very least he needs to talk with an agent of ours before retreating to the states."

"Or in the states," the American pointed out. "Best yet would be bringing him to the British Embassy in Moscow before allowing him to return. And perhaps the president will not be so indisposed to allowing the team he arrived with to come back as well?"

"The American State Department is already talking to the president about returning the entire group to the American embassy. Suffice it to say that allowing criminal charges to be dropped is entirely within our jurisdiction, provided we reach a compromise."

Harsh undertones were newly apparent in the British speaker's voice. "As sad as it is that these Americans are confined in Russian territory, they did enter under false names and reasons, and that has nothing to do with finding Alex Rider. Surely the president has not forgotten the debt he owes Alex?"

In the KGB offices in St. Petersburg, Pavloskii pursed his lips and shook his head. Eventually both the Americans and British would allow the files to be sent to him through a secured connections, but even after that was agreed on there would be matters of both agencies wanting their men present to protect Alex from Russian interrogation, and writing out exact deals integrating satellite and information use with man searches, and then the matters of extradition (which, if time dragged on without even a DNA strand of the boy showing up, wouldn't be necessary). If only for the sake of his sleep, he hoped Alex Rider turned up soon.

-Break

"Did you have an actual plan for dealing with Alex?" Molotov asked idly in Russian, glancing across his desk at Yassen. His early morning walk with the wife and kids had passed pleasantly, and little (including the inevitable unpleasant fate of the captured teenager) could ruin his mood.

"I gave several last night."

"Painful, impossible to implement plans that leave open opportunities for his people to attempt a rescue. Or complicated relationships with terrorists – hardly a group I would guarantee a return on my money from."

Yassen shrugged. "It doesn't matter to me, but at the least I want him scared."

"Reasonable," the mobster said, changing the subject. "I sent copies of the formula to the lab in Yekaterinburg. They said we should be ready to test on rats in a week. But an interesting development – a Russian spy placed in an American lab said the Americans created the drug. I had a man on the inside leak the news to me, but the president knows."

"That's why he signed the law banning Americans from adopting?"

"It's a theory. Apparently only Putin and a few advisors know, but I'd hate to be an American diplomat in the following weeks, especially once the drugs start circulation. There's a possibility they'll be too busy duking it out among themselves to really concern themselves with stopping our new drug sales."

-break

Alex's mind wandered on, looking for distractions. Maybe he'd even luck upon a catnap if he could settle down.

Moneywise…three hundred thousand dollars was a lot of money. More than he'd made in the past two years. But not more than he had access to, thanks to a rather recent monetary reimbursement from the new head of MI6. And even with his expatriate status, MI6 had guarded his information as if he was an adult member of their organization. All in all, since Egypt they'd been civil, even taking care of Jack's funeral. A year ago they'd gone so far as to get him classified files for a case his organization was handling. According to Smithers, the only reason Blunt didn't have charges pressed against him for "the Alex affair" was MI6 fearing the scandal going public.

And what was so wrong with paying the ransom? Money wasn't worth anything to him dead, and on second thought even just promises of a quick, painless death could easily equal three hundred thousand. Still, Alex dug the wood shards against his palm. Giving money to Yassen and his boss to kill him didn't sit right. He was man enough to go through a bit of pain, no matter his pleading earlier in the night (yesterday?).

No, Alex, you aren't, he chided himself. Fear of purposeless pain has nothing to do with being a man, and of course you're going to beg to get out of torture – it doesn't make you less of anything, especially when the only thing you're giving up is a bit of pride. Your team is fine, the drug formula is already in the mobsters hands – getting out alive is the only thing you need to focus on, and you deserve to live. Pride is not worth dying over.

And so ultimately the question lay in whether there was any hope in being allowed out of this situation alive. If the mobster would take a bribe, pay it. If the bribe only existed to take away a bit of pain/organ pilfering, it was time to madly attack.

His lashes fluttered. He was tired. Exhausted, scared, and as prepared as he could expect, Alex rolled onto his side. Sleep, he commanded himself.

Delirious, he laughed. Here his inner self was, telling him what to do like an impudent child, and it just reminded him of Yassen. Little Alex, he mocked himself sardonically, put your hands in the air. Don't be stupid, give me the gun, go back to school, and if I see you again I'll force you to dress like a matador and attempt suicide while people give you flowers. But I'm protecting you, because I love your father and love you, and by the fucking way go check out this lunatic group called SCORPIA. If that doesn't work out, just screw yourself and eat some waffles while I find out some stuff about your dad that I should have been clever enough to realize eighteen fucking goddamn years ago. Then I'll go bloody sulk like I'm the only one with a bullet in me, and start thinking up plans to get revenge on the defenseless kid who hasn't killed me yet.

A vengeful smirk twisted itself across Alex's face. It might be worth dying a painful death if he could take Yassen down with him – stab him with the wood, shoot him in the head, it didn't really matter, though he was personally inclined towards the messy end of the spectrum. Did assassins really need fingers? Or eyes? Apparently fifteen year old girls and Alex didn't.

-Scene

CEOs could make hundreds of thousands off the governments after scandals broke, Jerome thought to himself, but perhaps the government ought to focus on paying their own intelligence officers instead. After all, if he was making even another fifty thousand a year he wouldn't be going to tell the mob boss Molotov (Dead Dog on a bad day) that the KGB was coming after him. At least that's what he told himself, but greed is one of those pesky sins that seem to pervade the air no matter the amount of safeguards placed against it.

Jerome saw bribes happen every day, and no matter how technically illegal they were, or how many law officers were around when the exchange took place, few ever seemed to get punished. And oddly enough, those caught and punished were those presiding in certain positions in certain opposition parties against the president. What was the difference between investing in a bribe to secure a job interview and making a bit of spare change by telling Dead Dog that some people were coming after some kid he was holding, and by extension him? It was a bit immoral of the government, anyway, he figured, to ignore the previous understanding they had with the mob (we leave you alone, you don't draw attention to our illegal activities with you or order hits on high up officials) just cause some eighteen year old (the son of a diplomat, he guessed) ran away to join to mob. He probably had a friend in the group, or wanted to impress a girl. What's the harm in that, really? No one was getting hurt by Jerome letting the mob escape. And his wallet wasn't complaining.

And attacking Dead Dog in his place of residence? Really, it was just disrespectful. Just bad manners. The government deserved selling out for that alone, as far as he was concerned.

-break

"Good morning, Alexander Rider. I suppose you've come up with a payment plan for the three hundred and fifty thousand dollars you owe me?"

Alex stared back, barely keeping his eyes from drooping. He'd been woken up with a flashlight pointed into his eyes maybe five minutes ago, given a chance to use the restroom and brush his teeth, and then accompanied into the same office as last night. Dead Dog was wearing a black suit that, begrudgingly, Alex admitted made him look somewhat handsome, for a man in his late forties. Yassen was leaning against the wall in the corner of the room, holding a cup of coffee Alex could smell from across the room. His stomach growled and he reclined against the chair with a grimace.

"You said three hundred thousand last night."

"I said fifty thousand in interest a day, and it's the next day."

"Well there goes my plan." Alex met Molotov's eyes, refusing to flinch away. A dark silence brewed. "Maybe if I ate something I'd be a bit more helpful. Removing the hired help in the corner might free a bit more of my mind too, if we're trying to maximize my potential here. My teachers always said I had great potential, if the conditions were right."

"Food is reward, not a right," the mobster returned. "And unfortunately for your teachers, it seems your potential will go wasted."

Alex laughed. "My potential was already screwed according to them, so no great loss. Something about murdered guardians and manipulative terrorists makes it hard for a kid to focus, it seems."

"You're avoiding my question." Molotov's eyes flicked to Yassen, while Alex realized his background as a spy was the subject of private discussion earlier. "I don't know what experiences you've had a prisoner, only that you've had them. But I am not here to make empty threats, or attempt grand plots. I am in charge of an efficient machine, and you are here only so long as I figure out what I need to turn you into an asset. You are not a guest, you are not a hostage, and you are not a hero. Amusing as the discussion last night was, I don't have an active interest in dealing with terrorists just to recoup my losses."

"Shame, because whatever's left of SCORPIA might-"

"Alex, I invite you to remember the saying children should be seen and not heard. You are not my child, and I don't care to listen to you. Especially when I am talking." There was a minute of silence as the two stared at each other. "I don't particularly dislike you. I don't care what happens to you. I care about my money. If you don't have a way to get my money returned to me by tonight I will flip a coin between selling your insides and giving you to one of my brothels. " Molotov's upper lip twisted halfway. "Or perhaps I will ask Gregorovich to choose."

"Fine," Alex said. Butterflies flew across football fields in his stomach. Somehow it was always the sane ones that terrified him most. They were the ones you couldn't aggravate into killing you in intricate, escapable ways. "I can get you what you want and more. But you have to let me go, uninjured, and forget you saw me."

"I don't have to do anything."

"Then don't, and sell me out, in whatever way you choose. I can't stop you. But I'm not an idiot. You won't get half of what you want by selling my organs. At least not you personally. Bribes to make people look the other way, paying off the doctors, ice for my kidneys," Alex shrugged sarcastically. "I doubt I'd be cooperative in either, so I guess ropes might come in handy. And I don't know about prostitution, I don't really need to pay for my flings, but however great I might be in bed I'm not worth that kind of money. Especially just for a night. Unless your clients pay for fighting, or the novelty of raping a former child spy. Assassins don't even make that kind of money, as far as I know."

Molotov laughed softly. "So you're offering?"

"I have half a million dollars in the bank," Alex said, which was true. It forgot about the second half of his fortune, but he _had_ half a million in the bank. "I can get you a hundred thousand now, and when you let me go the rest will be wired to you. We can walk away from this without anyone getting hurt, and you'll have your money."

"A brilliant suggestion that completely forgets the fact that we can get that money anyway," Yassen said, coming out of the corner and taking a seat, abandoning the coffee on Molotov's desk. "It would not be hard, and in the end you could be sold for a bonus. Perhaps clients would pay slightly less when the object of their short lived affection is missing three fingers, but a prostitute who couldn't see the person who took advantage of them will give them a sense of security."

Molotov glanced between the two. "Interesting as your suggestions are, Alex, others are waiting to meet me. Gregorovich can help fine tune any other ideas you come up with for the rest of the day, and then we will sit down and discuss. And on the increasingly likely chance you fail to meet my expectations, he can help me decide which option is more viable." He walked around the desk to the door facing the business apartment, but stopped to look down at Alex. "Don't waste your time begging if you haven't come up with an idea by dinner. I'm giving you a chance. I haven't even ordered Gregorovich to take your banking information from you."

"Yet," Alex muttered.

"Precisely."

The door shut, and Alex focused on controlling his breathing, trying to look collected.

"If you don't have any other ideas, Alex, I'd like to work out."

Alex shook his head, spent. "Why did you do that?"

"And by that…?" Yassen trailed off, impatiently.

"I could have paid my ransom and left. Do you hate me so much that I have to be sold into prostitution to make you happy? Or maybe I'll just be auctioned off as a bag of parts." Alex buried his head in his hands, leaning forward.

"You threatened to kill me. Is that my cue to beg for your release?" the Russian condescended. "Actions have consequences, and it's not in my job description to save you from your own carelessness. Your plan was never going to work, and all three of us would be better served not wasting time talking about it."

"Oh, so you're helping me now?" Alex bit back.

"I'm giving you a chance to figure it out. I'm not on your side, Alex. What was it you said about potential – it needs the right environment? You should have stayed in school, instead of chasing MI6 for jobs."

"I never had any fucking potential!" Alex stood up, "You killed my uncle, and suddenly I was being blackmailed, and then you sent me to find a bunch of bloody trigger happy terrorists that wanted to kill me ten times over!" He stopped, noticing the whine. He needed a gun, or a distraction. Even a solid hammer could do the trick.

Unconcerned, Yassen stood up to match. "That's not my problem," he stated softly.

"Right." Alex looked down. The floor looked as inviting as a king sized bed with a water mattress right now. Was Yassen supposed to keep Alex with him today, or did talking for a few minutes before summoning guards suffice? If the former, sometime Yassen would eat, and he might not care enough to withhold food like the mobster advocated. Twenty four hours was long enough to think on an empty stomach already. But he wasn't going to ask – he'd gone longer, like being holed up in a trench in Pakistan waiting for a bunch of terrorists to fuck off. And then he was putting up with Brandon's constant threats of cannibalism. "If you're so fucking fantastic at this, what do you think I should do?"

"Come up with $350,000 before dinner."

Alex laughed bitterly. He could barely keep his eyes open, and it looked like Yassen was texting again. Probably – but assassins weren't exempt from playing Angry Birds, so who knew. It wasn't as if they were discussing his life, or how much of it remained. Not that the hit man cared. "Fine, so what if I don't? What are you going to choose, bag of parts or rape doll? Or better yet, torture me until I give you all of my bank information, steal my money and then decide."

"Sounds like you've finally come up with a working plan," Yassen commented.

Alex slammed his fist on the desk, frustrated. "You're both asses. And your boss is a liar. He said all he wanted was the money 'I owe him', which five hundred thousand more than covers."

"You expected transparency and fairness from illegal organizations? Or perhaps you thought I would save you?"

"I don't want or need anything from you." Alex's mind cast around for the wooden weapon in his pockets. He could make a break for it at the front of the apartment, stab someone and run. It wouldn't work, it would be nearly suicide, but a bullet in the back was better than the current plans the mob created.

Yassen idly read over the list of employees paid today on his phone, mostly ignoring Alex's yammering. When the spy calmed down he would lock him up and go workout; Alex would fall asleep without causing trouble. By tomorrow he'd be gone, or the day after if interrogation was pursued.

But he couldn't ignore the small part of his inner conscious speaking out. Normally silent on all matters, his conscious flinched away from the idea of hurting Alex. Or seeing him shipped off for abuse and death. When Alex taunted him by asking which he'd choose…he'd choose killing Alex with a bullet to the head sooner than either of them. Or letting him give Molotov his half million and run, however stupid and naïve the idea was.

But Alex's fate wasn't worth losing sleep over, let alone his job. Again.

-break

Russian special ops are some of the best trained individuals on the planet. And included in their training is the ability to follow orders without questioning. So when satellite images created by laying British, Russian, and American surveillance on top of each other showed the path of a car carrying some kid to an apartment suspected to house a mob boss, it took them less than three hours after being told to rescue the aforementioned kid to lay out a plan and get moving. Now they surrounded the house, and were fully prepared to charge in to a crescendo of tear gas. All that remained between this kid and their loving hands were orders on how to approach the other people in the house.

And a guy named Jerome who deserved a free pay day.

-To Be Continued-

AN- remember the favorite/least favorite I asked for at the top? I figured out how to allow anonymous/non-user reviews, so everyone should reply :)


	7. Chapter 7

While the special ops took care to covertly entrench themselves in the surrounding area, Jerome was inside talking to the mobster. Five minutes after the forces arrived, money, computers, and paper trails were bundled together to leave. Someone blindfolded and handcuffed Alex, carelessly flinging him onto a chair within earshot of Molotov gathering his family. Guards and the maid prepared their own belongings to leave.

Twenty minutes after the forces arrived the group was leaving.

-break

Inside a black van down the street from the apartments, temporary CIA agent Sylvester incessantly tapped his fingers. He was appointed for the duration of rescuing Alex Rider, after already being in Russia with the rest of Alex's company. And he was ready to snap Alex's neck.

"Stay out of the fighting," the Russian commander reminded Sylvester. "When we get the boy we'll bring him in here."

"If you get him," Sylvester said. "He might fight you – he's probably unarmed but he's got just as much training as you."

"It's fine," the Russian laughed. "We're the best. Better even than your Western forces. We aren't known for failures."

-break

The maid and Jerome, paid off in full, left minutes before the group was ready to leave. A guard escorted them to the parking lot before choosing the appropriate getaway vehicle and driving it the front of the apartment.

Molotov's wife carried the two nine-month old babies with her to the van a few minutes ahead of time, accompanied by her nine year old son and a second guard holding packed suitcases full of children's clothing and supplies (since the nearest safehouse was built for adults).

Jerome was abundantly clear when he specified that the men were there because of "that kid", and Yassen planned the exit plan around the philosophy that the Russian troops would want to take Alex and get out with minimal loss of life, especially of Molotov's family. "It's bad for their safety if they endanger civilians," he'd said. And the Russian government wouldn't be attempting to completely sever their ties with the mob, if past scrimmages between the KGB and the mafia were examples. So the family and guards sat in the car and waited as the mob leader and his accomplices prepared to leave, using Alex as a shield.

It was hell from the first moment. Yassen was distracted enough that he hadn't noticed Alex slip the handcuffs and blindfold off – or perhaps he thought it was one of the guards, because Alex made no attempt to hide his unbound state once he discarded the accessories, relying on his mannerisms fooling the men into thinking he was supposed to be let alone.

Bullets were fired around them only seconds after they left the door, the Russian special ops unprepared to launch a full out assault but in position to fire on a target. Yassen fired back, holding Alex as a full body shield while Molotov and three more guards decked in SWAT style armor hurried the group along.

When someone released a smoky concoction, Alex took advantage of the chaos and managed to pull free while Yassen was busy forcing a stumbling Molotov forward.

One of Yassen's side fell.

Alex could have gotten away then, it would only have taken another few hundred feet. But suddenly someone had thrown a grenade, and it was seconds away from exploding, and there was Molotov's nine year old son standing there in the middle of the street looking at the thing like it was a new species of lizard. "Move," Alex screamed, but the kid just looked up at him with wide eyes. Did he even know English?

Yassen appeared, running towards Alex. There wasn't time to rescue the kid and escape. Alex changed his path, lunging towards the grenade, and grabbed the boy around his waist and kept running until an explosion pierced the air, throwing him off his feet, and his body landed on the kid.

His eyes watered and ears rang, and he could _feel _the pandemonium occurring all around, and the child squirming underneath him crying. His arm and the right side of his face burned, from where he had propelled across the sidewalk landing. Gloved hands grabbed his shoulders and shove-carried him to a black shape in the fog. Wordlessly he was shoved through the door of a van, and a guard inside grabbed his hair, dragging him into the corner and slamming his head against the wall before releasing Alex to fall onto a seat.

Yassen crawled in after, and the van screamed into motion. Across the van the kid looked roughed up but alive, sobbing his eyes out into Molotov's shoulder while the man himself was yelling at two of the guards, asking how his child escaped into the bedlam. Outside bullets sounded, but none met the walls of the van, and only one of Molotov's men was gone while Alex remembered hearing several bodies fall.

"Let me guess," Alex choked out between wheezing gasps. "That was stupid."

Yassen finished buckled himself in, and gestured for Alex to do the same, angrily shaking his head. "Yes, and no."

"Guess it's a good thing it won't happen again, then." Yassen didn't respond. Five miles passed while the children were calmed down, and from the lack of explosions it was clear the special ops lost their tail. Finally able to breathe, Alex looked around.

They were in the back corner of a van that would have naturally fit four rows of three people. Instead someone had modified the inside so that everything behind the driver's row (where the two guards from the front of the apartment yesterday sat) was removed. The sides and windows were reinforced with a bulletproof metallic material (excluding the one door). The seats had been put back in lining the walls, so that two parallel rows of seats faced each other.

Two other guards station themselves across from and beside the door. Molotov and family sat across from several seats filled with suitcases, and then Yassen and Alex occupied the corner.

The mob boss put his son down, buckled him in, and moved himself to the end. With a façade of calm, he looked at Alex, waiting until the boy met his eyes. "Are you satisfied? You used a child as a shield, mentally and physically scarring him for life."

"I didn't -"

"If I have to tell you to be quiet one more time I will burn the words into you." The hair behind his neck stood on end. "I hope you are satisfied, because you will have a long time to consider those actions. When we arrive at the safehouse I am going to take a knife and carve all of the scars you gave my son into your skin, and then I am going to chain you a wall and allow every single member of my entourage a chance to introduce themselves to you. And when that is done we will have a lengthy conversation with knives about the exact details of your bank account."

"Alex didn't hurt your son," Yassen interrupted. Molotov paused and glanced over hatefully. "A soldier threw a grenade near Abhi and Alex pulled him away. He would have escaped if he hadn't saved your son."

Hazel eyes lingered on Alex's scratched face. "You've found yourself a hero, Alexander Rider. I believe you. That doesn't change the fact that my family wasn't in danger before you came."

"Yassen brought me here, and you kept me. I didn't volunteer," Alex whispered. He was lightheaded; the hunger and exhaustion were back in full force now that his burst of adrenaline was defeated. His fingers clenched around the edge of the couch.

Lips curled in disgust, the mobster sneered. "You're pitiful. Stay that way. If you can keep out of trouble the rest of this journey I'll consider the debt of my last dead man erased." Switching to Yassen, "I want your eyes on him at all times."

Yassen shrugged and the man retreated to his family, taking the two babies onto his lap. Alex glanced at Abhi. His mom made a face at the child and he laughed, before seeing Alex. Waving with a smile stretched across his face, he'd forgotten the wounds.

"That was very noble of you," Yassen commented, in such a low voice only Alex could hear, and barely.

"Is that supposed to be a compliment, coming from you?"

"It wasn't an insult." A pause, "But nobility won't get you anywhere."

Alex's eyes dropped, and he0 leaned against the car's side with the left side of face. The stinging on his right side was almost gone, and there wasn't much he could do now. He closed his eyes.

Yassen pulled out a book from his jacket. That stupid, stupid boy.

-break

Alex stared mesmerized out the front window (or only window, after the redecorating of the van). The driver was weaving in and out of traffic, trying to stay at least twenty miles over the speed limit. Inside the van a Russian kid's radio program was on, and Abhi kept bursting out in laughter, but otherwise a sleepy atmosphere took hold. Yassen's eyes were closed while he reclined.

A baby started mewling, and Alex flinched. The vehicle was pulling off the highway, he noticed. Were they at the safehouse already? Or maybe they needed gas – the colorful fast food icons sticking thirty feet into the air indicated a pitstop instead.

Almost on cue, the mobster's wife was stretching, and she leaned over to ask the two guards closest what they'd like to eat. She was obviously English herself – so Abhi probably understood English. On the other hand, asking a mobster's kid for help was pushing suicide. And no nine year old deserved to discover the hard way their dad was a monster.

Molotov scooted to the back again. "Same as last time, Gregorovich?"

Yassen replied in Russian. Molotov nodded, turning to Alex with a smile that said he wasn't forgotten. "Water for you, I suppose? I doubt you need anything to eat so soon." When Alex was unresponsive, he added "We'll be stopping for the kids and some of the men to use the restroom, but the house is only another two hours away. The government isn't aware of our next point of operations, if you were concerned."

Molotov returned to his wife, who was writing a list of meals.

Clearly he was taunting Alex. Torturing, actually, with close to 36 hours passing without even a cup of water headed his way. It wouldn't do lasting damage, and it didn't create a show to entertain the wife and kids, but it kept him from escaping.

"There wasn't any way for me to bribe your boss to let me go, was there?" Alex asked. "Last night he promised I'd be released if I paid, and the moment I offered he laughed it off."

Yassen's lip curled. "I doubt it. Perhaps if MI6 or your company was willing to pay several million up front an exchange might have occurred."

"But otherwise it was a waste of time to offer a deal, right?" Alex remembered bitterly. The answering silence was affirmation enough.

A moment later the wife and Abhi were back with food – Molotov, the driver, and the babies were still gone. Abhi, still small enough to walk in the van while standing straight up, walked over to Alex. "That explosion was cool. Can we do it again?" He had a slight accent, but his English was perfect – spoken at home, if his mom was an indicator.

Yassen was reading. He didn't appear concerned, so what was the harm in responding? "Ask your mom, but I'm guessing not."

"Oh." He frowned. "I can get your food."

"I think I had a water."

"Aren't you hungry?" Abhi asked curiously. Alex's position was obviously not evident.

"A bit," Alex admitted. "But food's expensive, and I don't have any money."

"My dad could buy you food," the child pointed out.

A grimace crossed Alex's face. "He could."

Yassen looked up, and spoke rapidly to Abhi in Russian. The boy nodded and went back to his mother. A moment later he came back with two waters and a bag of food for Yassen. Alex recoiled at the smell. "I wanted to give you some of my food, but my mom says I can't share because then I'll get hungry," Abhi said seriously, handing Alex his water. "I don't think my mom wants us to be friends, either." The boy tilted his head. "Are you bad? My dad said I shouldn't talk to you."

Abhi's mom was glaring at Alex. "If your dad says you shouldn't talk to me then you should listen. Why don't you go back to your mom?"

"The twins are noisy." Abhi wrinkled his nose, indicating how undesirable his siblings were. "You aren't. And I haven't talked to you yet."

Alex looked at Yassen desperately. He couldn't handle this – he wasn't used to kids, let alone one who could have him whipped just for talking. He continued reading. Alex could deal with it, apparently. "I need some sleep Abhi, I'm tired," he hedged.

"You were just asleep," the boy giggled. "You aren't a cat."

"Your parents will get angry at me if we keep talking. I want your parents to like me, so I can borrow some money for food, ok?"

"They'll give you money for food anyway! My parents aren't mean."

"Ok, then, why don't you go ask your mom to get me something," Alex snapped. It hadn't come out harsh, thankfully, at least Abhi didn't look upset, but he was losing control. Not eating he could survive. But stressed out, hungry, and alone while carrying on an idiotic conversation with a child whose parents would have you tortured for disturbing him? Two years of target practice didn't train him for this, and what little experience with children he had boiled down to them wailing while Alex consoled and rescued them.

"Ok," Abhi agreed helpfully, and sidled back to his mom.

"That wasn't wise," Yassen observed. "Asking is only going to guarantee you'll be waiting longer."

"I couldn't think of anything else! If you're so concerned you can tell him to shove off."

Molotov had gotten into the van with the children and driver now, but no one was looking Alex's way. Either he hadn't upset Abhi's mom much or he'd feel it in two hours.

His thumb circled the water bottle cap. If he took a drink now, he might feel even hungrier. On the other hand, if he didn't drink now he could lose the water soon. And Alex couldn't survive much longer without water.

"Drink something," Yassen commanded, annoyed with Alex's fiddling.

"I'm too hungry."

Wordlessly Yassen handed him the unopened fast food bag Abhi had brought over. "You won't get anything else today, after your stunt."

"I don't think I was getting anything else anyway, and my _stunt _meant saving his son." Alex dug into the food, ignoring a scathing glance Molotov sent his way, and the drive continued on, thankfully, without incidence.

At the safehouse, a church in the middle of an unpronounceable, sprawling suburban city, several men came out to greet the family and escort everyone inside. Yassen kept a strong hold on Alex's arm and dragged him into an administrative building where a homely woman in her late twenties manned security cameras. One of the cameras showing a door to the back rooms briefly featured Molotov's family walking through. "Close your eyes," Yassen admonished, destroying Alex's hope to build a blueprint of the building in his mind.

He was lingering in a dreamlike state, leaning against the wall, when Yassen shook him awake. Startled, Alex looked up and realized the voices he'd taken for a dream conversation were Molotov and Yassen speaking in Russian.

"I'm tired of waiting, Alex," Molotov said, and with two fingers signaled a stocky man into the room. Addressing the guard, he waved at Alex. "Beat him up until he gives you his bank information. I might need him alive for some talks later, so leave his face alone."

"I'll just tell you," Alex offered.

"I imagine you would." Alex tried to plant his feet immovably in the floor.

"Does your wife know what you do? She might object to screaming teenagers in her house, it might wake your kids."

The leader's eyes narrowed. "If you were older you'd understand marriage is a partnership. And I understand you already bothered my son enough today. You won't be given that opportunity again."

"I'd hate to bother anyone – I think he was just thanking me for saving his life after your guards couldn't keep track of him." Yassen shoved Alex into the unnamed guard. "I'd hate to bother your guard," Alex gasped as he was grabbed. "The effort of dragging me into an elaborate dungeon only to have me ready to give up everything I know, and then he'll have to go get pen and paper…"

"I'm sure that would be a trouble. Unfortunately, I think you're a bit more resistant than that – thirty minutes before you start giving the details I want? Better men have lasted less time; your struggles were certainly admirable."

"Alex did have a plan that might net more than the contents of his bank account," Yassen suggested, avoiding Alex's glare. "It depending on contacting MI6, if I recall."

"They'd be willing to pay if I was handed over alive," Alex lied, willing himself to believe it. MI6 occasionally did trade prisoners, but hand over money to criminal organizations?

"We'll see," Molotov allowed. "Thirty minutes of your time first, though."

Yassen watched as Alex was shoved out of the room. "There's no reason to keep him long. MI6 will pay."

"There's no reason to keep him alive," Molotov responded. "He's seen my family, and my safehouse, and my son will be scarred because of him. I'll keep him a day more and get all that I can out of him, and then he'll be shot."


End file.
